My stepmother called me at the end of the day, her voice so smug I could practically hear the smile on her lips, and told me that from now on I would never be allowed to set foot in the family beach house again because she had already changed every lock.
By the time Diana Crawford’s smile finally slipped, I had already learned one of the hardest truths of adulthood: people like her only seem powerful as long as everyone around them keeps pretending.
She was smiling when I arrived at the beach house just after sunrise. The sky was washed in pale blue-gray, stretching over the dunes and the ocean beyond. The porch boards had faded to a silvery tone from years of salt air, and the hydrangeas my mother once cared for had grown wild, their soft blooms heavy with morning dew.
And there she stood.
Perfect hair. Cream sweater. Gold earrings catching the light. One hand resting on the railing as if she owned every inch of the place.
